Iron Fic: Tom Riddle Jr and the Riddle Family
by The Chairman
Summary: Contestants were give 24 hours to write 1500 words on Tom Riddle Jr. and the Riddle Family.
1. Eliza Bryce's Conversation

Eliza Bryce enjoyed her job, most days. The Riddles were honest folk, if a bit gruff, and if young master Tom (who wasn't so young anymore) drank far too much. They came from means, and as people of means, they had certain expectations about the way the world (_their_ world, if she was honest) was supposed to work. Silver was to shine, linens were to be pressed, English was to be spoken as the King did, and tea was to steep for two minutes, forty-five seconds, not a moment more or less. But, as long as one abided by their rules, conformed to their world view, one could expect to be treated with professional decorum.

And if there were one thing about which Eliza was intimately familiar, it was the world view of the Riddle family. She maintained the household necessities, her father's sister was the family cook, and her grandmother had taken charge of Tom's early education. And since he'd come back from the war, even her brother Frank had come into the Riddles' employ, tending to their grounds and automobiles. As far back as anyone could remember, in fact, both sides of her family were employed by the Riddles. And had she had a child of her own, that child would also have been employed by the Riddles (she was nearly 35, however, and therefore doubted the possibility of this occurring).

One of Eliza's responsibilities was to place the weekly orders from the market in Chester. She enjoyed this respite from the pall that had settled over Riddle Manor. For all their quiet decorum, there was a distinct sadness about the Riddles, and there had been for the last seventeen years. For her part, Eliza blamed those horrible, troll-like Gaunts. Were she someone who believed in such things, she might have accused them of putting some manner of hex on the family. So it was good to get out; to take a drive along the Cheshire back roads, and then to spend some time in the city. The errand itself was a bit pro-forma since the war – one didn't have much in the way of choice when one's purchases were tracked by stamps in a ration book – but it was still an excuse, and she enjoyed her tea at the shop on Northgate St., even though she'd had to learn to drink it black.

It was there, in that tea shop, where Eliza first met that strange young man. He was as young as he was beautiful, and he was desperately young indeed, certainly not a day over 17. He walked through the door of the tea shop, head high, seemingly taking the measure of everyone inside. His eyes settled on Eliza for but a moment, and then flitted away suddenly, as if he wished not to be caught. As he walked toward the side of the room where Eliza sat, however, his demeanor grew more confident, and there was a bit of a smirk about the young man's face.

"Pardon me terribly," the young man said, "but do you know a place called Hangleton? I believe it's in the countryside nearby, but I'm not too familiar with Cheshire."

Eliza looked up, feigning surprise. She knew full well who was speaking with her, but was wary of anyone as self-assured as he was at that young an age.

"Is it Little Hangleton you're looking for, sir, or Greater Hangleton?"

The young man replied "Little Hangleton, I believe. I have some business there," and then smiled warmly, which made Eliza even more ill at ease. No one ever simply 'had business' in Little Hangleton, except with the Riddles. And since that nasty business with young master Tom and those horrible troll-people, no one ever had business with them, either. Eliza shifted in her seat, cleared her throat and looked downwards. This was a strange young man, indeed, and she'd best be circumspect with her words. She thought of the Riddles; images of them passed by her mind's eye clear as day. Then she thought of young master Tom. And for some reason she thought of the day he'd come home with a face full of pustules, and how it was shortly after this incident that he'd taken the queerest fascination with that Gaunt woman – what was her name? Ah, Merope. – and how poor Cecilia was just thrown to the side, discarded, like. What a sad, sad day that had been.

"May I sit down?" the young man asked. Eliza's first instinct was to curtly tell him "no you may not," but she thought that might be rude. This boy had traveled a distance, obviously. His accent and demeanor suggested a London upbringing, and if his business took him 200 miles from home, it must be important enough to allow him to sit. Besides, he wanted to hear about Little Hangleton. And Little Hangleton was home, and Eliza was proud of her home; of course she'd tell him everything. And certainly he'd want to know all about the Riddles, as they were the prominent family. She suddenly hoped his business could afford him an hour or two's conversation over a cuppa.

"Yes, please do. Shall I order us more tea?"

"No need, Miss Bryce," he replied. "I've already taken care of that." And as he said that, a server came by with a fresh pot and a cup for him, filling both of their cups before she left.

"So," the young man began, "who are the Riddles?"

"Well, sir, Eliza began, "They are the wealthiest and best-known family in Little Hangleton. Their money is so old that no one is entirely sure how they came about it, but they've managed it well, and now lead a life of quiet leisure in their grand manor. The gentleman of the house is a mister Thomas Riddle, and he lives there with his wife Mary and their son, poor young Tom."

"'Poor young Tom?' Why do you call him that?"

"If'n I'm honest, he isn't a bit young a'tall, anymore," Eliza answered, too desperate to relay this information to mind the King's English. "He's nearly 40. But I suppose t'keep him straight with his father, that's what we call him. Young Tom. And he's poor because, well, dearie me, but that's a story. I'm sure you don't want me to be talking off your ear, like."

"No, please, Miss. Do go on." This delighted Eliza, so much so that for a brief moment she began to wonder why she was so eager to relay this story. But that moment passed, and on she went.

"It all started with the pustules, see. No one else remembers them, but I saw him come into the house one day fit to be tied, going on about an awful man who attacked him with a bit of twig, and that he was now covered head-to-toe in pustules. I was certain he'd gone 'round the bend, but his skin'd been clear when he left the house that day. Next day, no one seemed to remember anything – not even young Tom – and Mrs. Riddle beat me good and proper-like after I asked about it, not that I didn't deserve it, mind, I certainly was being a silly little girl, but I'm quite certain of what I heard."

"If it helps at all, Miss Bryce, I believe you."

Eliza smiled at that, and blushed a little. She cleared her throat and continued. "I do know what I heard, thank you, mister – ?"

"My name isn't important right now, Miss Bryce. Please continue."

And no, the young man's name wasn't important at all. He could be any young man, but it was dreadfully important that she continue her story about poor young Tom.

"Yes, well, all was quiet for a bit after that. But then, about a month afterwards, young Tom comes down with the oddest fascination for the Gaunts. They're this family just outside of town. Well, actually, he wasn't so much fascinated by the family as he was by the daughter, Merope. She'd been left alone by her family for some reason or other, and master Tom starts going by to check up on her. Next thing we know, poor Cecilia's been chucked to the side, and a letter comes in from Tom saying the two of 'em have run off together to London! If that isn't the end! The next Lord of the Manor and the town tramp, run off together like they were joining the circus. Well, with the family _she_ came from, that probably wasn't too far off."

"Tell me about her family, then," the young man asked.

"Of course, milord," Eliza responded quickly. "They're – well, there's just the one of 'em now, isn't there – it's a poor family. A very poor family. And not so's you'd want to help them out 'round Christmas, either, no, more's that you'd warn your kids off going near 'em. The father, he looked more like a diagram of Neanderthal Man than anything human I've ever seen. And the son – gone off his nut, that one. You'd see him sitting there on the ground, like, in front of his house, hissing at the ground as if the bloody snakes could make out what he's saying! I mean – begging your pardon, milord."

The young man smiled. "That's quite alright; I've been known to use an oath or two, myself. But what of the girl – Merope, I believed you said it was?"

"Much like the rest, but in female form, from what I saw. Beady-eyed, dirty, filthy thing with stringy hair and a pallor of grey about her. That hovel's not no place for a woman, so how she managed, I'll never know. Can't say's I blame her for jumping at the chance when a fine looking young man like Tom comes by, either. But then one day, a year and a half later he's back at the manor, in quite a state. He said it was like a nightmare from which he couldn't wake up, until one day he did, and he left her there inna family way. He felt just awful about it, but he said the thought of that creature giving birth was enough to send him 'round the twist. Cecilia'd long since moved on by that point, not that she'd've had anything to do with him, either. He came home to nothing, and he's spent the last seventeen years reliving that, thinking about what he could've had, and drinking himself legless. He used to be quite a fit young man, actually.

"Really? What did he look like?"

"He, well, he had the pronounced cheekbones, much like yours. Pale, but with dark hair and eyes, again, just like…"

"Like me, Miss Bryce?"

Eliza did a double-take. "Why yes, milord. He looked very much like you when he was your age."

"If I told you I was sixteen years old, would it help you guess my identity?"

Eliza thought a moment, then put her hand to her mouth. "My word. You must be young Tom's son!" she whispered, only half-believing it herself.

"Very good," the young man replied. "Now, if I am young Tom's son, and therefore his heir, what does that make me to the Manor, and to you?"

"That would make you the Manor's Lord, and my employer," Eliza said, nearly rapturously.

"Yes. Yes it would. Now, what time will you be serving supper tonight, Eliza?"

"Supper is at seven, and I'm certain young Tom would want to see you, my Lord."

"So he shall. Now then, I have need of your services tonight, Eliza. You shall take me in your motorcar to meet the last remaining Gaunt. Then, this evening, I shall come 'round for supper. Please do not set out another service for me, as I will have no need of it. As I enter, you will announce me as Lord of the Manor, introduce me to my father and grandparents as such, and then you shall run to the river Dee, fling yourself therein and drown. Do you understand?"

"Oh yes, my Lord. Shall we leave for Little Hangelton now? I'm parked close by."

Eliza's driving was distracted as she drove the two of them up Parkgate Road. She was terribly excited for the tasks she was given by the new Lord of the Manor, but hoped the Dee would not be too cold when she jumped in to die.


	2. Riddle No More

Riddle No More

Mrs. Cole took a few deep breaths and poured herself a cup of tea. He was out of their hair now…. It was over. She glanced over at her calendar, still shaken from the meeting.

The past few weeks had been tense to say the least. When the Riddle boy had gotten back from school, he'd seemed…angry. Angry and determined. He barely spoke to anyone, not that he'd been overly loquacious before. And while his younger years had been marked by a few nasty curiosities, his final weeks at the orphanage were downright horrific.

Of course, she had no proof.

Still, it was too much of a coincidence that bad things happened whenever he was particularly upset. All of the clothes in Amanda's wardrobe shredded to bits. Griffin's nightmares. Sarah's illness that no one could quite figure out. Little Steven's tumble down the stairs had been the last straw. She'd been ready to kick Riddle out, or have him transferred to the asylum, when he'd come down to see her that afternoon. He'd given her a letter from some professor, and demanded to leave. Fine with her. She'd turned him loose, hoping the rest of the world survived having him around better than they had.

The boy stood in the filthy shack, panting with anger.

Morfin understood—it was his family's shame after all—but he kept his knife handy all the same. If this boy had come for trouble, ol' Morfin would give it to him, no mistake. "And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit...It's over..." He slumped back into his chair, eyes watery but still trained on the boy.

It seemed the teen was calming down. The cool demeanor he'd had when he first entered the cabin returned, and he sounded almost…peaceful when he next spoke. "I understand. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time. If you could point me to the village square, I'll leave you."

"Up the road. Don' follow the signs—through the woods is quicker. You'll see a path. Get out."

The boy fixed him with a look and left. He backed out of the shack, never taking his eyes off Morfin.

The village square was packed with people. Shoppers ran to and from store and stalls. Children played near the fountain. Men argued loudly over sporting matches and the price of a good pint in those "bloody stuck up cities". No one really saw the boy moving quietly through the crowds. He made sure to stay out of the throng as much as possible—keeping to the shadows of the squat buildings.

He made his way to the pub. That was where they congregated—the Muggles with the loosest lips. Not that he'd have trouble getting information out of any of these…vermin. But he had traveled all day, and had almost been stabbed by his (he shuddered at the thought) uncle that afternoon. He was tired, and the sooner he could accomplish his task, the better. He needed to know who was in the house, and if they would be alone. He could have looked around himself, but he didn't know if they had servants—housekeepers, gardeners. The last thing he needed was to be spotted by a nosy gardener who would tell five other people before five minutes had passed. At least this way he could make sure he wasn't remembered.

The six men and the bartender turned and stared as he walked into the cramped, dusty building. One of them whispered behind his hand. He could make out one word over and over again: Riddle. Yes…the sooner this was behind him, the easier it would be to move forward. "Hello," he said to the bartender.

"Morning," the burly man said with a nod.

"I'm trying to find my uncle's manor…Tom Riddle. I'm visiting from London, and I must confess I'm finding your lovely forest a bit of a challenge to navigate."

"Riddle's your uncle, you say?" the man asked, suspicious.

"Indeed, sir. I haven't seen him in years unfortunately," the young man lied. "I got a letter from him shortly after my mother died, asking me to visit. Not sure that they're there. I thought they may have come down to the village for the morning."

The older man's face softened. "Far as I know, they're up there. They don't really mix with us villagers much. You'll take the north trail up the hill. Just near the fountain. Lead you right to it."

"Thank you," the boy said. He made his way back to the door, muttering something under his breath. He turned and saw the few patrons' and the bartender's eyes go glassy for a moment.

"Oi, Dickey? Did you order something? Can't remember what I was doing."

"Don't know. Did you hear, the tramp Gaunt was spotted skulkin' 'round the Riddle place again?"

Tom Marvolo Riddle smiled and slipped back into the shadows.

The house was quiet, save for the deep voice raging in the parlor. As the sun sank behind the trees, the young wizard moved silently through the halls. He sneered at the portraits on the walls, shaking his head at the Muggles' obliviousness. They had so much…and deserved none of it. They hadn't even noticed him in the house. He'd watched them from the shadows before retiring to one of the many rooms to think for a bit. Not once had they suspected that they weren't alone.

"Why would they turn down the proposal?" Tom Riddle Sr. raged. "THEM! Barely a drop of noble blood in them. They should be so lucky as to find a match for the girl."

"She's ten years your junior, and the father was made aware of your…mistake," another male voice said.

The boy's face grew hot with anger. A mistake, was he? That was rich. Noble blood…. He was the only part of their family that was noble in any way. He was the only great one among them. But they knew nothing of him—of his power or even his existence. It was time for them to learn of Lord Voldemort.

"I'm a Lord!" Riddle groused. "How dare she turn me down?"

"Perhaps she sees you for what you are," Voldemort suggested, stepping into the drawing room. The dessert things were set up on the bar on the far side of the room. The smell of roses reached the teen's nose, and he almost retched. "See you for the filth you are."

The family whipped round to face the intruder. "Who are you?" the grandmother snapped.

"I?" he asked, smirking. "Do you not recognize family when you see it? No, I suppose you wouldn't. You left before I was born. Running from your…mistake."

"You're…you're him?" Riddle asked. "She wasn't lying."

"I am Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The grandfather stood from his chair then, and shook his pipe at the wizard. "I don't know what you're playing at boy," he said. "But if you think you can just show up here and cause a scandal…think again. We're an old family—older than your mother's—and we could ruin you."

"You? You can do nothing to hurt me. I am a greater Lord than you could ever dream to be. You are nothing compared to Lord Voldemort."

"What's a Voldemort?" the grandmother asked.

"Nonsense, dear," the oldest Riddle said. "Probably a nutter like Gaunt. That is, if he's telling the truth."

"Lord Voldemort has no need to lie to the likes of you—"

"What's that you're saying? The likes of us!"

Tom Riddle Sr. just stood there, mutely staring at his son.

"Lies are used to gain advantage. Filth like you are of no use to me."

"That's it! I'm calling the police."

Tom Marvolo Riddle, from that moment on, Lord Voldemort, waved his wand through the air twice. The two old people fell still and silent. Dead.

"What? No!" Tom Riddle yelled.

"Be seated," the teenager told him.

"You've—you've killed them," the man stammered, hovering over his parents' bodies.

"Sit."

The man did so. This child was obviously dangerous, but maybe if he did what he was told, he could reason with the boy. "Listen—"

"I think you've done enough talking for a lifetime," Voldemort said calmly, taking out his wand again.

Riddle glared at him.

"How dare you look at me?" the boy, his son, asked softly.

The older man dropped his eyes. "Please, son, you don't have to do this—"

"Silencio! Crucio!" Voldemort watched as the man writhed in silent agony. Finally, he lifted the spell. He wasn't here for entertainment. He had other business to attend to. "Avada Kedavra!"

The Riddle family was dead.

The sun had set by the time Voldemort made it back down to the Gaunt shack. It was an easy enough task, sneaking up on Morfin. The man was drunk and falling over. His job would be quick.

"Imperio!"

The man's eyes slid out of focus, and he dropped the knife. He turned, wand trained on a snake now instead of the boy. A flash of green light, and the snake was dead.

Altering his uncle's memories took a while, but finally he finished. With the false memories and his uncle's wand showing a Killing Curse if anyone cared to check, no one would ask many questions.

He stood to leave, but stopped. The light from his wand glinted off the ring. "Accio!" Pocketing the ring, he took a last look at the sleeping man and Disapparated.


End file.
